


Jamais Vu

by kehinki



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehinki/pseuds/kehinki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier and Captain America are alone in a cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jamais Vu

**Author's Note:**

> Very minor spoilers for CA:TWS if you haven't seen the trailers/know who Grillo's playing.

When the others finished with him, the Captain was a damned mess, left on the floor of his cell, hands secured behind his back. With his wounds still fresh and a cocktail of drugs still circulating through his system, he was dazed and seemingly incoherent, curled around his injured stomach and mumbling nonsense to himself.

He’d long since stopped trying to get up off the floor – his legs were useless. He’d tried dragging himself up by the wall, but after a moment of amused chortling from Rumlow and his lackeys, Rogers had been dragged down by his hair.

And now the Winter Soldier watched him from where he stood guard by the door, arms crossed and expression neutral. He had his orders: have some fun for a job well done and then dispose of him. He understood the latter objective: Rogers was unresponsive to persuasion, unwilling to do as he was told and was thus a nuisance that needed to be eliminated. The Soldier could do that easily, a gun to his forehead pointblank, a twitch of his finger and it’d be all over. Rogers would cease his incessant mumblings of name, rank, serial number and would be _quiet_ and still and cold, finally.

“Should get to… base…” Rogers said to himself, eyelids drooping – and that was a change from his earlier mantra. “Should find… others…” His eyes were nearly shut then, staring at the far wall unseeingly.

The Soldier approached him then, heavy boots silent on the bloodstained floor. He contemplated the first aspect of his orders: _have some fun_.

He stared down at Rogers, and his metal fingers moved towards the knife in his belt, wondering if he should cut him up, carve his chest full of pretty designs, perhaps a star to match the one on his torn uniform. That was fun, wasn’t it? Or at least Rumlow’s idea of fun, surely.

With his hand resting over the hilt of his knife, he crouched down low and reached out with his flesh and bone hand, gripping Rogers’ face by the chin and turning it towards him.

His eyes were slow but they eventually turned towards him and focused – sluggishly – and his ramblings petered off.

Those eyes of his – they were blown, nearly black with just the slimmest sliver of blue. They were blown and they _shone_ , but there was no rage or fear or defiance in them.

And then he remembered this was the first time his face was uncovered; he knew it from the way Rogers’ gaze moved over his face – to the his eyes, nose, lips, chin, and that look on his face – it was more akin to adoration than anything else.

 _Adoration_ for his would-be killer. He’d lost his mind, and the drugs in him were making him see things that weren’t there, they were making him see death and _smile_ at it because that was exactly what Rogers did next – his mouth twitched and then stretched into a weak, pained _smile,_ and his bloodied lips parted, just barely.

“Bucky,” he said.

That meant nothing to him, but maybe this is what Rumlow had meant by having fun. Maybe he was meant to play a game. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was barely a rasp from disuse.

“You were gone.” 

“I wasn’t.”

“Bucky,” Rogers said again, and this time it was more of a whine, a happy little groan. His eyes shone even brighter now, glinting under the harsh fluorescents of the cell, and the Solider realized that they were wet, even though he was still smiling.

The Soldier could only stare a moment before unholstering his gun and bringing the barrel to Rogers’ forehead.

Rumlow was wrong. There was no fun to be had in this.


End file.
